The youngest one is the tip.

My own son is half of my blood.
His child has only one fourth of mine.
Yet I love it more than
I loved my son as a child.
The reason is not far to seek.
I am desperate for company.
I want a constant companion.
Others are busy to neglect us both.
The grandchild is my apical meristem,
That I want to tend to preserve my root.
25.04.2001, Pmdi

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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